


No flowers, by request

by SherlockChlo



Series: Detective Squared [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Crime, Demisexual Sherlock, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, John is a Bit Not Good, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11379324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockChlo/pseuds/SherlockChlo
Summary: After John Watson betrayed Sherlock's crumbling trust in people by putting him in hospital, he only has one person left to turn to: Greg. There's more to their relationship than people see, as they grow and get through the events of Sherrinford together as one.





	1. I can't go home, Greg.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so I've been wanting to write fanfiction again for months but I've had my A Levels so this is the first chance I've had. This idea has been playing around in my head since TLD (which this fic will contain spoilers for, as well as TFP).
> 
> None of the characters are mine, and all rights go to Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss.

A key slipped into a cold wooden door, shielding the warm from the bitter March morning. London’s streets were almost deserted at this time of night, and for that the shadow was thankful. All he wanted was to get inside and let himself rest. _I just need to rest._

Once inside, the heat penetrated Greg’s face, a welcome sensation in comparison to the three am air behind him. One look at the DI’s eyes would tell anyone that exhaustion had long since hit, with long hours at work and protec- _minding_ his friend at the hospital starting to wear down his resolve. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to last living in this way.

Attempting to deal with both Culverton Smith, easily one of the most disturbing men Greg had ever had the misfortune of meeting in his entire career, and Sherlock lying bloodied and broken in a hospital bed as bait for the monster previously mentioned, had tired Greg immensely but he had to keep going.

Sherlock needed hi- _someone_ to look out for him.

John Watson clearly wasn’t the one to look out for Sherlock Holmes anymore. The John Watson that would follow Sherlock around a crime scene with praise, or keep the Detective in his place when Donovan riled him up, was long gone.

Greg had talked with John after Sherlock was admitted, wanting to get the full story from someone other than the two involved. He had trusted John to look after Sherlock. Apparently, he had been wrong to do so. All he felt when he thought of the doctor now was anger and, more than anything, _hatred_.

Greg took pride in having looked after the Consulting Detective before John had arrived. _He_ had been the one to hold the young junkie as he detoxed on Greg’s sofa. _He_ had been the one to give up smoking alongside Sherlock to encourage the younger man to find something else that ‘calmed his mind’. _He_ had been the one to suggest that Sherlock start consulting with NSY, and had ensured that Sherlock had been six months clean before he’d met John Watson, and had fallen in love with the younger man (despite all his attempts not to) because he could see who he really was.

Of course, Greg had never told Sherlock about his true feelings, even as he crushed the younger man into his own body upon finding out he was alive, or as he held his hand as the frail body lay in a hospital bed. The hospital bed where his best friend had put him.

After all, what good would it do him if Sherlock did know?

Sally Donovan knew, of course. She always seemed to know what Greg was thinking, even when he didn’t know himself. She was good like that.

“Tell him,” she had said one night when she left the office late, “there’s no better time than the present,”

Greg had dropped his head into his hands, tired of everything and just wanting to hold Sherlock close to protect him from the World, to protect him from John. But he couldn’t do that.

Instead, the DI would sit next to Sherlock’s bed for as long as he could every day, holding Sherlock’s hand when he was asleep and unaware of the way Greg would look at him.

It hurt.

It hurt to watch Sherlock being unresponsive for over a week, his body forced into a coma by the hospital to avoid giving the ex-junkie any drugs that could send him spiralling out of control. It hurt to watch Sherlock open his eyes for the first time, to see the damage done to the once beautiful feature, the colour matching the finger prints visible on Sherlock’s nose and mouth. It hurt to see Sherlock struggle to speak, asking for a man who had saved his life but didn’t deserve any of the kindness Sherlock could give him.

Watching Sherlock struggle hurt Greg Lestrade, reminding him of how he had tried to piece the Detective back together when he’d given up drugs completely for the last time.

John had said that Sherlock had been on drugs again, had scared Mrs Hudson beyond her wits, reciting Henry V, and making even more holes in her flat’s walls. That information, told to him in the form of an accusation towards him, hurt Greg more than anything else. He had failed to protect the man that he loved from the one thing that crippled his life and his abilities the most.

Despite this, Greg wanted to help him. He wanted to make sure that no one else could get to Sherlock, even if he died of exhaustion in the process. Overall, Greg would say that he was lucky because Mycroft Holmes had pulled a few strings and would let him see Sherlock anytime he wanted, for as long as he wanted.

He did not grant John the same kindness.

Naturally, Greg found himself by Sherlock’s bedside all night, every night, and whispering to the younger man about anything that came to mind. Sherlock would ask him about Rosie, clearly infatuated with the young Watson, and listening to the progress she was making (and he was missing out on).

Sometimes he read him detectives novels, smiling when Sherlock simply shut his eyes and lay back, or watched Greg’s face with his full attention, and didn’t immediately ruin who the killer was. It reminded him of years previous when he would read, with Sherlock curled up and shivering in his lap, the Harry Potter novels despite the younger man’s protests that wizards weren’t real.

“Sometimes it’s good to live in the fictional World, Sherlock,” Greg would sigh, his hand finding itself in Sherlock’s curls.

“What’s a World if it’s not based on scientific fact though, Lestrade? These novels seem to provide you with too many ludicrous fantasies,”

Greg would laugh, agreeing with the man (because who hadn’t dreamed about getting their Hogwarts acceptance letter at least once), and returned to the book he was reading, his hand still stroking Sherlock’s matted curls.

Even at this time of the morning, Greg found himself losing himself in his own head. _I need to sleep._

The DI pushed himself off his apartment’s door, the lights hurting his eyes slightly as they bounced off the white walls. He’d moved since the days where Sherlock would come and sit with him to detox or to console Greg about his impending divorce, to a smaller apartment. His daughters came to visit him less often, so there was no need for the man to pay out more money than was necessary.

Tonight, Greg would get to sleep in his own bed, as opposed to leaning against Sherlock’s hospital bed, clutching the man’s hand. Sherlock had discharged himself whilst Greg had been at work, struggling to keep his eyes open as he filled in some paperwork Sally had gifted him with. The smug bastard.

At least getting home at three am meant that Greg would manage at least three hours of sleep in a bed before he had to get up and face a new day. A new day alone.

What he didn’t see was the frail body, wrapped tightly in a coat and a blanket, that was perched on the side in the kitchen. A body that, despite the doctor’s warnings about the two bruised and the broken rib the man had been forced to bear, had discharged itself from the hospital hours before.

Moving to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea (too late for a beer at the time of the morning) and checking his phone to see if his daughters had messaged him (they hadn’t), he heard a soft ‘Lestrade’ come from the shadows, causing him to nearly drop his phone on the floor. He paced forward quickly, switching on the kitchen light and staring directly at something, or someone, that definitely shouldn’t have been in his house at this time of night.

“Hello, Lestrade,” Sherlock spoke softly, his voice still sounding scratchy even after two weeks in a hospital bed, “I didn’t mean to scare you,”

Greg placed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, rubbing the headache that was forming there and trying not to be angry that Sherlock had broken into his apartment _again_.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

“I-I wanted to see you. You have been spending all of your time working or checking up on me, I thought it was time that someone checked on you,” the younger man managed to smile, the stubble on his cheek hiding the crinkles slightly. As Greg stared at the man before him, he was reminded just how beautiful Sherlock Holmes was.

Sure his left eye was still red and blood shot, but the blue had greens had returned meaning that Sherlock’s eyes were as gorgeous as they had always been once again. His hair was dirty and matted, but the curls were still there. The man needed a good haircut.

 _God, I love him_ Greg thought to himself, his heart pounding in his ears as he prayed that he hadn’t said out loud. He folded his arms across his chest, back straight and staring at the huddled figure before him.

“I can’t go home, Greg,” Sherlock whispered, Greg only just managing to hear it, “there’s too many memories of Mary there and I-I can’t,” he watched as the younger man hung his head in shame, holding himself tighter.

Taking a deep breath, Greg asked with dread already seeping into his heart, “what about John? Or Mycroft maybe?”

Greg obviously didn’t want Sherlock to go to either of them for help, but those two were the men Sherlock relied upon when he was in trouble, and yet they were arguably the people that let him down the most.

Sherlock barked out a laugh, “ah yes. The friend who stopped me seeing his daughter and then put me in hospital, or the brother who I know is keeping something big from me and perhaps cares slightly too much about my welfare,” Sherlock’s eyes turned sad for a moment, “what a choice.”

“Well, you have me. You know that,”

Sherlock raised his eyes to stare at the DI, tears threatening to escape and give away his true feelings about the John situation.

“You’ve always had me, Sherlock,”

“I know,”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped to the floor again as Greg moved to put the kettle on, “tea?”

“Please,”

Kettle on, the two mugs the men always used standing side by side on the counter, Greg moved to stand next to Sherlock and folded his arms across his chest once again.

“You look like shit,” Sherlock said, moving slightly closer to the older man.

“Hey, you don’t look much better, Sunshine,”

Greg laughed slightly, turning his head to stare Sherlock directly in the eyes. He could see the sadness increasing in Sherlock’s posture, the man’s body becoming smaller as he closed in on himself. Clearly, Sherlock was still in a lot of pain.

“It was my fault,” Greg heard Sherlock mumble, “I should have kept my promise. I failed to keep it and now I’ve lost three of the people who mean the most to me,”

Greg turned, hurt slightly by not being included in Sherlock’s favourite people, placing his hands on Sherlock’s (very bony) shoulders in an effort to get him to talk to him. For a long while, Sherlock refused to look at him, turning his body away slightly, but hissing in pain when he moved too far.

“What John did to you was not your fault, Sherlock. Please understand that,”

Anger boiled inside him. How could one man be expected to protect three people from the dangers of the World, particularly when one of them was an ex-assassin? Sherlock should never have placed that pressure upon himself, particularly when people like Moriarty were still walking around waiting to test Sherlock’s nerves.

“I killed Mary Watson,” Sherlock sighed, “of course it’s all my fault,”

“I refuse to believe that,” Greg took a deep breath, standing back and opening his arms wide, “I believe in Sherlock Holmes, always have,”

“Then you must be very stupid, Lestrade,”

Sadness. Rage. What a toxic combination.


	2. You saved me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Sherlock turning up to Greg's flat after discharging himself from hospital, the detective inspector tries to convince Sherlock that what happened to Mary was not his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter of my fic. I had some really lovely feedback which honestly brightened my day considerably. I hope you enjoy this chapter x

_“Then you must be very stupid, Lestrade,”_

“I’m not John Watson, you know,” Greg said, venom leaking into his tone.

It had been two weeks since Greg had laid eyes on the army doctor, only seeing Rosie when he knew that Molly was looking after her, but the anger he felt towards him lingering in full. It was impossible for him to comprehend putting any of his friends in hospital, let alone Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his head slightly, hands tightening around his body, his coat almost hanging off him. _Bless his soul_.

“Of course you’re not John,” he said with a small smile, “after all, John has never seen me like this,” he sighed, his head dropping to rest against his chest.

“I don’t suppose he graced you with his presence then,”

The anger in Greg’s voice was increasing, he just hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to detect it. _Of course he’ll be able to, you fool._

“Apparently, according to Molly Hooper, he’s currently too busy trying to reacquaint himself with his daughter to take anytime off seeing his friends,” the younger man paused for a moment, almost in contemplation of the lie he’d clearly been believing, “but, anyone with a brain can tell that he just doesn’t want to see the monster who killed his wife,”

“ _Sherlock_ ,”

Sherlock pushed himself from the kitchen counter to a standing position, his fists balled up and his eyes ablaze.

“Honestly, Lestrade. If your wife had died-“

“Hey!”

“- and I had promised you that, no matter what demons were standing in the way, I would always protect all four of you-“

“Which John and Mary were perfectly capable of doing themselves!”

“-and then your wife was shot, your children left without a mother, would you be so different?”

Greg stood his ground, the detective having slowly made his way into Greg’s face, not wanting to give Sherlock the satisfaction of reacting in a way that demonstrated his point.

“John and Mary knew the dangers that you bring with you. Danger is practically your middle name by this point, Sherlock,”

Sherlock scoffed, his hands fisting even tighter.

“You seem to forget, Sunshine, but I was there when Mary _jumped_ in front of that bullet to save _you_!”

The stature Sherlock was attempting to maintain drooped slightly, signifying that Greg’s words were (perhaps) hitting home with the younger detective. Greg didn’t _want_ to make Sherlock feel worse than he already did, but he had learned in recent years that Sherlock appreciated the truth far more than he did when Greg had met the young junkie, and that, above all, he usually took Greg’s words to heart.

Greg sighed loudly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout at you,” he moved forward slightly, his arms out in surrender, knowing that it would help Sherlock build his trust back up sometimes when he was detoxing.

“I just,” he hung his arms, almost in defeat, “I _care_ about you, Sherlock, and people like John taking advantage of your naivety-“

“ _Naivety_?”

“-concerning relationships and friendships is not something I can just-just stand by and watch,”

Greg turned away from the younger detective, leaning against the kitchen counter and hanging his head in shame. Sherlock, unbeknownst to Greg, watched every move he made, unconscious affection plain to see in his eyes.

“I always thought you were the kind one, Detective Inspector,” he smiled slightly, watching as Greg turned to look him up and down smoothly.

“I like to think of myself as the ‘seeing people for who they really are’ kind of person,”

Sherlock hummed, “That’s an interesting way to label yourself to someone who knows everything about a person just from looking at them,” he said, chuckling slightly.

“Humour me,”

“Okay,” he paused for a moment, “what do you see when you look at me?”

“Well, _brave_ is one of the first words that comes to mind,” replied Greg, deciding that opting for something light and _definitely_ not at all revealing about his true affection towards Sherlock would be safer if he wanted to remain in the detective’s good books (if he was there now anyway).

Sherlock smiled, a proper smile that made his eyes crinkle and his teeth appear from under his lips, _those goddamn lips of his_ , and turned away to poor the boiled water into each of the men’s respective mug so that Greg was unable to see his face.

“It is my brother’s belief that bravery is nothing more than another form of stupidity,”

Greg chuckled lightly, a small smile reaching his eyes for the first time since Sherlock had been admitted to hospital all that time ago. Honestly, it felt like home again.

“Does Mycroft have much experience with being brave?” he asked, recalling the conversation he had forced Greg to have with him down a dingy alleyway nearly a decade before.

Whenever he thought about the look of surprise and, above all, terror in Mycroft’s eyes when the detective had, _very politely_ of course, told the government worker that he was entitled to have whatever relationship he wanted with Sherlock, thank you very much, before storming past him and letting Sherlock stay at his flat for a further two months just to spite the older Holmes.

Sherlock paused, his hand hovering in the air, halfway to putting a teabag in the bin, “Mycroft is perhaps one of the bravest men I’ve ever known,”

Greg wasn’t entirely sure whether he liked Mycroft Holmes or not, considering he had used Greg’s fracturing marriage to his advantage to belittle and anger the detective, because it appeared to Greg that there were times when the brother’s protectiveness became too overbearing.

“If you ever tell him that I told you that though, Lestrade, I will skin you alive and they will never, _never_ , find your body. Understood?”

He hummed in acknowledgement of what Sherlock had said, clearly recognising that Sherlock was far more likely to know his brother than he would, and trying not to giggle.

Greg had never admitted to Sherlock that he had met up with Mycroft twice a month while Sherlock had been ‘dead’ to ensure that the older Holmes was coping and stable after his brother’s suicide. That, of course, didn’t necessarily mean that Sherlock hadn’t known.

“I applaud your ability to distract me from the opinions you don’t want to hear, Sunshine,”

The sheepish look on Sherlock’s face confirmed everything that Greg already knew.

“Look, I know you don’t want to talk about John-“

“I never said anything of the kind, Lestrade,”

“-but someone has to tell you the truth. It might as well be someone dispensable like me,”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his mouth opening and closing comedically. Greg had _never_ seen Sherlock become speechless from something that _he_ had said (John, on the other hand, could make Sherlock look like a goldfish whenever he wanted), and he had certainly _never_ seen hurt in the younger man’s eyes like he could see now.

“Dispensable?”

“We both know that as long as you have John Watson in your life, there’s no need for good ol’ Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock,” he sighed, “all I’m good for is bringing you cases,”

“Greg,” Sherlock moved forward quickly, deserting the two mugs of tea still stewing on the counter, and gripping the inspector’s arms so tightly he feared there would be finger shaped bruises there in the morning, “you don’t understand how much I value you, do you?”

The older man risked raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, afraid of the storm that he would find there if he looked too deeply, completely surprised when he found tears brimming in the corner of the self-proclaimed sociopath’s eyes (although Greg knew that was a load of crap any who).

He shook his head, tears brimming in his own eyes too, fearing that Sherlock may have in fact discovered his secret and bracing himself for the uproar it could cause.

“But, you-“, Sherlock paused, “you saved me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave any criticism that could help me improve my writing as I love to improve. Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that wasn't too bad (because it hasn't been beta'd)! Please leave any comments because I always like to improve my writing. Thank you for reading !


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